


impossible is not a french word

by wraysford



Category: Formula 1 RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-18
Updated: 2014-05-18
Packaged: 2018-01-25 16:15:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,728
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1654691
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wraysford/pseuds/wraysford
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The wine is sweet, something French with a long name, and it’s not what Nick would usually drink when there’s a good beer on offer. Then again, none of this is anything he’d usually do; he doesn’t know exactly why he’s here, why Bruno and Nicolas approached him during the drivers’ briefing at Spa to ask if he’d like to have dinner at Le Mans, but he <i>suspects</i> and he’d agreed to come anyway and <i>he doesn’t usually do this</i>. (or, WEC threesome porn, set Le Mans 2013)</p>
            </blockquote>





	impossible is not a french word

**Author's Note:**

> I don't finish anything in forever and the one time I do it's WEC RPF, I don't even _know_. Featuring permanently smiley Bruno and Nicolas Prost being every inch a Prost, and basically, porn. Threesome porn. 
> 
> Title is stolen from the French FIFA World Cup slogan because it is past midnight.

They’re teammates again, he and Nicolas, for the second year in a row, but Nick still doesn’t know him, not really. He knows _about_ him: how he likes the car set up, for instance, favouring understeer to oversteer, and that he doesn’t like the taste of podium champagne, and that he’s long since given up trying to cast off his father’s shadow. But he doesn’t know- _know_ Nicolas, and nevermind that he hasn’t been properly close to a teammate since Robert.

He certainly doesn’t know him well enough to be sitting opposite him in a restaurant on the bank of the Sarthe river, watching him run a fingertip around the rim of his wine glass, smiling evenly and amusement in his eyes as he listens to the story Bruno’s animatedly telling them both.

And it’s odd, being here with the two of them, both dressed smartly in dark trousers and a shirt with their team logos conspicuously absent; Nick had realised quickly he was underdressed in his jeans. He shrinks back in his seat, picking at his food like he’s a teenager at his first dinner with important sponsors all over again. It’s difficult not to feel like that, when he’s stumbling over his order from the menu and Bruno is just waving a hand serenely to let Nicolas order for him, and listening to conversations he only half comprehends.

“More wine?” the maitre d’ asks, displaying the bottle to them, and Nick nods, grateful for the distraction.

“ _S’il vous plait_ ,” Bruno says,  Nicolas murmuring an echo.

The wine is sweet, something French with a long name, and it’s not what Nick would usually drink when there’s a good beer on offer. Then again, none of this is anything he’d usually do; he doesn’t know exactly why he’s here, why Bruno and Nicolas approached him during the drivers’ briefing at Spato ask if he’d like to have dinner at Le Mans, but he _suspects_ and he’d agreed to it anyway and _he doesn’t usually do this_.

It’s something of a relief and a confirmation when a little while later Bruno folds his napkin on his plate, reaches into his pocket. “Shall we leave?” he asks. “Our hotel isn’t far.”

And _oh_ , Nick thinks, _okay_ , and gets so distracted watching Nicolas press close against Bruno’s side and Bruno brush a hand over his hip that he accidentally leaves the waiter a €80 tip.

 

In the taxi Bruno chats with the driver, discussing the race, the local sights, listening patiently to an anecdote about a six-year-old niece who got lost in the city and somehow ended up at the circuit.

Nick stares out of the window until someone touches his knee, and then he’s glancing away, blinking the flickering streetlights out of his vision. Nicolas is leaning towards him, something unreadable in his expression, and that’s him all over, Nick thinks. Enigmatic, self-controlled, observant: the perfect successor to his father’s reputation and perfectly complementary to Bruno.

“You know what this is about,” Nicolas says, and it’s a question but not really.

Nick nods, slowly, and Nicolas doesn’t move his hand away.

 

The hotel is on the outskirts of the city, new, contemporary, the kind of nondescript hotel with glass panelling everywhere and modern art that says nothing at all in the lobby. Nick barely notices it all.

He doesn’t notice if it’s Nicolas or Bruno that slides a keycard into a door  on the twelfth floor, either, but it’s Nicolas who kisses Bruno as soon as they walk into the room, leaning up to press their mouths together. It’s Bruno who laughs into Nicolas’ mouth, sliding one arm around his waist.

Nick closes the door silently. He shrugs his jacket off, folding it neatly over the back of an armchair, and then toys with the hem of his shirt. It feels wrong to just assume, but then there’s not much left implied when Bruno and Nicolas are kissing right there in front of him.

 _Right there in front of him_ , and it makes Nick feel old and young all at once, seeing the two of them together. Old because he _is_ the oldest of the three of them and young because, well –

It’s the eyes, he thinks, as both of them turn to look at him, Nicolas’ hand still pressed against Bruno’s chest. From the eyes you wouldn’t be able to tell whether it was today or twenty years ago. Nick’s hand tightens in the fabric of his own shirt, and Bruno smiles.

“Take your shirt off,” he says, softly, and leans down to kiss Nicolas again.

Nick does pull his shirt off. He turns around to toss it onto the same armchair, and when he looks up Nicolas is muttering something in Italian. There’s the same impassive expression on his face, and it’s at odds with the way Bruno’s grinning as he responds.

“What did he say?” asks Nick, because fuck it, he’s not the one with anything to lose here.

“He says I’m not the one who has to share a garage with you,” Bruno tells him, and he murmurs something else in Italian before letting go of Nicolas, walking across the room to sit back on the edge of the bed and beckon Nick over. “Come here.”

It doesn’t answer all of Nick’s questions, but the most pressing one is resolved when Bruno reaches out to undo Nick’s jeans as Nick approaches him, brushing past Nicolas to reach the bed. There’s a smile playing across Bruno’s mouth as he tugs them down over Nick’s hips far enough to rub him through his underwear, gently, trailing delicate fingertips across the head of Nick’s cock. Nick groans, hips instinctively shifting forward, and Bruno’s hand stills as he smiles properly up at him. It doesn’t look as if he’s seeking approval; it’s more genuine than that, Bruno seeming pleased, not anxious _to_ please. Nick would smile back if he wasn’t biting down on his lip, trying to hold back a groan as Bruno leans forward and mouths at his cock through the fabric of his boxers.

His mouth is warm and wet, and when his long fingers curl around Nick’s hip they press against a bruise where his race harness dug in a little too much during free practice. Nick gasps quietly.

Bruno’s not sloppy but he’s enthusiastic, and he doesn’t rush it, takes his time, licking up the length of Nick’s cock through the fabric until it’s soaked with his saliva and Nick’s precome. All the same, Bruno makes an appreciative noise when he finally pulls Nick’s boxers down far enough to expose his cock, and it’s already fully hard, precome smeared across the tip by his underwear.

Bruno considers his cock for a moment or two, warm breath falling over it, and then licks at it. He circles the base of Nick’s cock with two fingers before taking it into his mouth, swallowing down easily. He takes it slow, deep, and Nick groans more loudly than he intends to.  He swears in German when Bruno does something complicated with his tongue, the words sounding muffled to his own ears.

Bruno pulls back, but not far enough that a string of saliva stretching from his mouth to the tip of Nick’s cock breaks, and laughs breathlessly before lowering his mouth again.

(And a few days later, in the garage during qualifying when he really ought to be thinking about anything else, Nick’ll find himself wondering how it wasn’t weirder: getting sucked off by a man he didn’t much know beyond what he tries to forget about Renault 2011 in front of his – boyfriend? Friend? And he’ll realise that he doesn’t know what Nicolas and Bruno are to one another, and it’ll be too late to ask.)

There’s a noise from somewhere behind the two of them, someone clearing their throat, and Nick startles. His hips jerk forward slightly, and Bruno gags a little but moans.

And then Nicolas is sitting down by Bruno’s side, sliding a hand up into Bruno’s hair and watching the way his eyes flutter shut with something akin to fondness in his eyes. They’re dark when he looks up at Nick. “Do you want to come now or do you want to fuck him?” he asks, and Bruno hums happily around Nick’s cock, obviously content with either option.

It takes all of Nick’s self-control to look away from how red and wet Bruno’s mouth is around his cock to meet Nicolas’ gaze instead. “Can I fuck you?”

Something flickers briefly in Nicolas’ eyes, and Nick wonders if maybe he’s gone too far (because like Bruno had said, they’re the two that share a garage and a team and a car)  but then he’s shrugging, fingers twisting in Bruno’s hair as he gets up. “Sure,” he says, and a few moments later Nick hears the noise of a zip, something rustle.

He comes back with a little tube of lube and a condom. The lube’s half-full (Nick’s an optimist) but used all the same, and Nicolas looks at Nick like he’s daring him to ask.

Nick doesn’t, though, too focused on not thrusting into the wet heat of Bruno’s mouth; he groans unhappily when Nicolas curls his fingers back into Bruno’s hair, tugging him back before moving away. He’s efficient where Bruno is more passionate: there’s a certain deliberation in both of their actions, the way Nicolas is stripping off methodically as Bruno is sitting back, pressing a kiss to the tip of Nick’s cock before he pulls away fully, _still_ smiling at him.

“You taste good,” he says, directed at Nick, and then reaches for the tube that Nicolas has discarded on the bed. Nicolas himself is settling down on his stomach, cheek turned sideways into the bed’s pillow, propped up on his elbows. He’s watching the two of them. “Do you want to help me open him up?”

“I –” Nick says, and then coughs. “Yeah.”  

The lube is cold when Bruno dribbles it onto his fingers, and he tries to warm it a little between his fingertips. Bruno already has one finger pressed into Nicolas by the time Nick sits down next to him, and Nicolas’ mouth is open against the pillow as he lets out soft little noises. It’s strangely – or not-so-strangely – hot, seeing his normally composed teammate like this, and Nick’s so fixed on his open mouth that he accidentally leaves a smear of lube on his arse before he finds his entrance. He feels clumsy, rubs over Nicolas’ sensitive skin with one slick finger before pushing it in alongside Bruno’s.

Bruno’s rubbing at the small of Nicolas’ back with his free hand as he presses another finger into Nicolas, and Nick’s almost surprised by how easily he takes it, the impatient little shift of his hips when Bruno stills after the third finger to let him adjust. It’s oddly intimate having Bruno alongside him in that wet heat, and Nick’s still hard when, after a while, Nicolas turns around to the two of them and says, “Okay,” definitively.

Nick stills, unsure what to do. He looks at Bruno instead, and Bruno nods.

 

Nicolas lets out a breathy little noise when Nick first pushes tentatively into him. His lube-slick fingers slip on Nicolas’ hips as he holds onto them, pressing his hips forward, but Nicolas pushes back to meet him. Even so it’s the most responsive Nick’s seen him all night, a far cry from earlier when he’d only had eyes for Bruno, and he likes it.

He pulls back before thrusting back in, hearing that noise again, muffled into the pillows. Nicolas’ skin is warm under his touch when he slides one hand up from his hip to press down on his shoulder, balanced over him on the messy sheets.

And it feels good, it feels so, _so_ good, the way Nicolas is tight around him and the noises he make go straight to Nick’s cock, and the way Bruno is watching the two of them with hungry eyes, and Nick wonders why they’ve never done this before and why they aren’t every race weekend, _christ,_ \- but the again, he can’t quite associate the Nicolas he half-knows with the Nicolas that’s trembling underneath him, trying to push back onto his cock as Nick holds him down. (He’s not big, but then neither is Nicolas particularly.) The Nicolas he knows asks him if he’s looked at the telemetry data, and can he work out where they’re losing two-tenths in turn three? Nicolas has never opened his mouth and let out a breathless litany of _please_ and _harder_ and presumably filthy French, but he supposes that would have gotten him funny looks from the mechanics.

Nick bites back a groan when Nicolas clenches around him, trying to get him to up his pace. He’s slowed to watch Bruno, who’s shifting the pillows out of the way. He pushes one underneath Nicolas and the others halfway off the bed – a handful of pillow chocolates scatter on the floor – and then he’s sitting with his back against the headboard.

He’s still fully dressed, and it’s an awkward position but he manages to undo the front of his trousers and work them down his legs far enough that he can free his cock. He’s hard, and bigger than Nick or Nicolas, longer; Nick can’t help staring as Bruno smiles widely, reaching up to stroke the pad of his thumb across Nicolas’ cheek before pressing his head down into his lap with a hand on his jaw.

 _This is his idea_ , Nicolas had said to him, while they were waiting for a few German tourists to exit the elevator. And Nick had believed him at first, but now, watching Nicolas take Bruno’s cock into his mouth, he’s starting to wonder whose idea it was exactly. He wonders if he was the first person they asked for this, or if this is a regular thing –

The thought makes him fuck Nicolas harder, pushing him down onto Bruno’s cock, and it only takes a few more thrusts before he’s coming. He ends up half bent over Nicolas, pressing his face into his flushed skin as he shudders, back arching.

It takes him a little while to get his breath back, for the edges of his vision to stop fading to grey and the rest of the world slowly register. Nicolas clenches around his softening cock, and maybe he doesn’t mean it that way – at least, the unhappy little moan he lets out suggests he doesn’t –  but Nick takes it as a hint to pull out, tossing the condom onto the already ruined sheets alongside the leaking tube of lube.

He feels so _tired_ all of a sudden, exhausted all the way down to his bones, and maybe he’s getting old or maybe he just hasn’t done anything like this in a while, or maybe it’s both. Either way he sprawls out alongside Nicolas to watch blurrily as Bruno finishes a few minutes after him, coming into Nicolas’ mouth with a shudder and some Portuguese curses, a hand clenching on Nicolas’ shoulder nowhere near hard enough to bruise.

 

Afterwards Nicolas rolls onto his side, facing away from Nick, and stretches out before sitting up and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. The bed creaks as he gets up, then it’s quiet for a moment or two before there’s the sound of running water, what must be the shower being turned on.

Nick glances at the open bathroom door , turning back to Bruno with what he knows must be a questioning look on his face. He can’t remember if Nicolas got off or not; he doesn’t know if he should follow him, press him into the wet tiles. All he gets in response from Bruno is a sleepy smile.

“Come here,” Bruno says, and Nick hesitates before shifting up the bed to let Bruno kiss him gently, tongue licking into his mouth.

It’s the first time anyone’s kissed him all evening.

After a few minutes Bruno presses a palm against Nick’s chest, pushes him back. “It’s late,” he says, and it could mean anything but Nick really is too tired to work out exactly what, so he just nods, standing up, looking around for his clothes.

The shower’s still running as Nick leaves, closing the door behind himself.

 


End file.
